Molding Your Feet
by westpoints
Summary: complete Addison/Charlotte. Unusual friendships are started, lifestyles are explained, and nothing really changes. That calm you feel? That's just because you're in the eye.


"Molding Your Feet"  
by TehFuzzyPenguin

Disclaimer: Well, it's been a while, but any part of Grey's Anatomy or Private Practice still doesn't belong to me.

* * *

Charlotte King, whenever she gets the chance, clutches things. She never holds things gently; Addison finds that even her TV remote has grooves where her fingers dig in. The only time—the only time she's ever seen Charlotte relax her grip is when she's holding a glass of something alcoholic. And that, Charlotte once revealed before she had too many, is just because she doesn't want to cut her hands.

These drinks, see, out and around, are because she's lonely, and there's nothing lonelier than drinking by yourself, so she invited Addison along one day. Addison hesitated. Addison had friends. But at the time, her friends were embroiled in drama, Pete had smiled at her all day, and Callie had drunk-dialed her phone. She agreed.

Friendship hadn't happened that night, or the night after that, and not for a while, since they didn't go out much at all. It was actually the most mundane of things. Charlotte looked at her shoes at the end of the day, the two of them having agreed that paperwork discrepancies between the center and the hospital were creating massive problems. "Malonos?" she asked.

Addison said, "Mmhmm."

Charlotte narrowed her eyes and said, "Ooh. Sexy."

"A pain in the ass," corrected Addison, but she smiled.

They wear the same size. Some days, they deign to exchange shoes, like best friends in high school. It makes Addison feel secretive. At the same time, uncomfortable, since Charlotte's feet have already molded the curve of her favorite Jimmy Choos, which look oh so good with Addison's skirt and make her legs extend all that way up. She hobbles in good fun. Charlotte has impossibly high arches.

Addison hopes they collapse one day.

----

Charlotte's stiletto heel drags along Addison's calf sometimes, when they're sitting next to each other at the bar. Addison coughs and twitches her leg away, because it tickles. She studies Charlotte's veined hands, one wrapped softly around a shot glass, the antithesis of Meredith Grey, and her heart sort of tugs. The other hand rests at the edge of the bar, fingertips pressing white around her nails.

Her cell phone inevitably buzzes, and Naomi has to shout over the noise to be heard, _Addison, where's your spare key, we need flour_. Or something equally bizarre.

"Why do you need flour?" Addison asks. Charlotte resolutely ignores her. "Can't you just buy a cake? Well, I'm sure Maya won't care whether you made it yourself, just that it's good. Get Dell to make you one. Yes, yes I did. Nai, I don't have flour anyway, so I can't help you." She ends the call abruptly. Charlotte smiles, but still stares at the bar.

Addison sighs. "Crisis," she explains.

"I know," says Charlotte, but she doesn't know at all. "Damn," she says, her accent drawing it out to two syllables. It's high-pitched and drawling, and Addison finds it addicting.

"Hey. Let's go."

"Sure," says Charlotte, and she stumbles up, her feet slightly pigeon-toed, and Addison has to help her out, calling a cab from her cell phone. "Thanks," says Charlotte. She only ever says thanks during times like these. Addison shrugs, not nearly as drunk, and slides in after her.

"I have your shoes," she explains.

Charlotte flops out a hand and says, "Gimme."

"You have to get home first."

Addison forgets about it on the way, because she's never been to Charlotte's house before. She imagines it clean and sterile, like Preston's apartment (she'd been there once, before the whole thing exploded). Medical books lined up, spines turned out perfectly. A rarely used kitchen. A wine cellar, maybe. She'd like a wine cellar, at least, and she's sure Charlotte would, too. It scares her how much she's like Charlotte.

Charlotte manages to get her key out and ready, because she's not _that_ drunk, and she holds the cab door open for Addison.

"What?" asks Addison.

"My shoes," says Charlotte.

"I can give them to you tomorrow. I'm not sitting here in bare feet," says Addison.

"You'll wear them tomorrow, so get out here, and you can go home in the morning. In my car. Which is much, much cleaner."

Which results eventually in Addison laying on Charlotte's pristine white couch, bare feet crossed over Charlotte's warm lap and eyes closed. Her house smells like vanilla and her fingers smell like vanilla and Charlotte's nails scratch along the bottoms of her feet, making Addison twitch.

Addison's phone rings. "Mm, hello?" she answers, her voice muffled. Charlotte rolls her eyes and moves her hands higher.

Naomi doesn't yell, but she thinks she needs to, and even Charlotte can hear her _Are you planning on coming home tonight?_

"I hate that Sam lives next to me. You suck," says Addison. "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't break into my house. I don't have any shoes. No, I'm not riding in a cab without shoes. Bye, love you." She hangs up and turns it off. "Better," she says to Charlotte.

Charlotte says, "Mm."

----

On drinking days, Addison spends the rest of the night at Charlotte's, and they talk to each other, they get out their late-night ramblings with their eyes closed and their hands soothing and cool on each others' skin. Addison buys an extra toothbrush. She wears old t-shirts of Charlotte's to sleep. They complain about the men in their lives. Charlotte tells her about Cooper.

"Are you _serious_?" asks Addison. "What was that like?"

"Anemic," says Charlotte. "Fantastic, but—distant."

"Ah," says Addison wisely. She tells Charlotte about Mark. She wants to meet him. Addison thinks they'd be perfect for each other, but doesn't want to inflict that on Mark. Or Charlotte.

"You know," Addison says one night. "I always wondered how your arches are so high." Charlotte flexes her foot. "It's amazing."

"I have beautiful extremities," says Charlotte. Her fingers still in Addison's hair, curl, and pull. Addison winces. "You have beautiful hair."

"I dyed it blond once," confesses Addison.

"I bet that was a mistake."

"Terrible."

----

When they run out of things to talk about, Addison feels her skin flush under Charlotte's fingers, and she decides that this is a really, really bad idea. Charlotte stops stroking her long enough to change the channel, but Addison doesn't want her to stop. She commandeers the remote away, and Charlotte goes back to warming her hands from Addison's arms. The channels flip quickly, only a few frames showing. People get shot, cars crash, prepubescent children kiss. A Technicolor image flickers, and Addison pauses.

"_Gone __With__ the Wind_?" asks Charlotte.

"It reminds me of you," says Addison. Charlotte bursts out laughing. "What?"

"Are you fucking serious?" asks Charlotte. "You're a romantic."

She bristles. "Well, yes. Haven't we talked about this before?"

"Yeah, but I figured...I mean, come on. Clark Gable? Could you see me swooning for anyone?"

"No. But that's not the point. I told you before—"

"Well, it's not like I'm listening half the time." Addison hates her accent, how the long 'i' turns into an 'ah.' "Oh come on, you can't be mad about that. I doubt you listen to half the shit I talk about anyway."

Addison sits up quickly. "No, I listen," she says. "I listen, because I'm that kind of person. You know? And I know you're emotions are terminally blighted, but you could have, at least, listened to me. You know, like you're my drinking buddy, okay? I trust you with my—my _life_ for two hours at a time! You know? You could at least try. I mean seriously!" She stands, wobbling in her own Chanel shoes that Charlotte borrowed last week. "Seriously!"

Charlotte reaches up, her fingers grasping at a thin wrist. They dig in. "Addison, it's not that big of a deal."

"I know! I know, but Charlotte—Charlotte, _nothing_ is a big deal to you!"

"Tons of things are a big deal. I'm the chief of surgery. I can't sleep half the time. I fantasize about your stupid nature boy. Big deals! We're drinking buddies, which, put next to all that, just ain't that important." She drags Addison back down, because the redhead looks like she's about to fall, anyway.

"God, just shut up," says Addison.

"—I mean, what did you expect of me? Did you want a _relationship_?"

"Just shut up," whispers Addison.

"Sam told me, once, that all his friends were of the marrying type, but you—"

"God, Charlotte, just shut up, will you?"

"You're just making all this a big deal. I don't even know what your issues are, but I do know that you're a doctor, Addison, and you have got to pull your shit together one of these days. Call Mark." The drawl burns in her ears. She wants to get away, but Charlotte's fingers are a vice on her wrist, and she hasn't felt this _mad_ in forever.

It's not even that big of a deal, and she's seething. Her temperature rises. Her heart pounds, and she looks at a bewildered Charlotte, who doesn't deserve this outburst, who only did what was expected in this situation. This sort of feeling intoxicates her. She's felt insecurity and disappointment and anguish, but this angry propulsion to get up and _do _something—this is a bad idea. It's a really, really bad idea.

Addison surges forward and presses her mouth against Charlotte's, position completely wrong and noses barely missing. It's horribly unromantic. It's even worse that she's not that drunk. Her lips tingle. Her wrist radiates pain. She shakes her arm, and Charlotte lets it go, letting Addison bring both of her hands to the back of her head, finally getting the angle right and slowing the kiss down. It's surprising to her that Charlotte kisses back, kisses back well, and doesn't seem that shocked.

Addison pulls away. "I hate you," she whispers.

"Fine by me," says Charlotte. "You're irrational, anyway."

Charlotte's fingers leave bruises on her skin, out of sight, over her right breast, below her rib cage, to the left of her spine. Two on her hips. She holds tight, her fingers bracing the insides of Addison's thighs as Addison buries her own fingers in blond locks and moans _She__ is way too good at this_. Things like this should take time to figure out and even longer to deny and repress. It's a little too easy for Charlotte to go along with it.

----

Charlotte lies awake, her arm resting over Addison's stomach, her fingers twisted in the sheets on the other side. She counts the freckles dotting Addison's shoulders. She compares her feet to Addison's at a distance. Her arches are higher. Her toes are shorter. It surprises her that they wear the same size.

She says things like, _I do listen_ and _We__ think differently __about__ a lot of things_ and _You have amazing taste in shoes _and _I'm the chief of surgery_ and, most of all, _I'm kind of scared_, and her fingers twist even harder. Because Charlotte fights for everything. She pushes away the things that she wants, and when they still come to her, she grabs them and never lets them go. She's scared that she won't hold Addison forever, and, worse, that she'd rather not hold her forever if it made Addison miserable.

She says things like, _Where I'm from, __people don't act like this, which is why I act like it all the time_ and _I went to college, but not like that_ and _I swear to God, you're not my lesbian experiment_ and _I have an irrational fear of losing things_.

Addison's eyelashes flutter and she whispers, "Go to sleep, Charlotte."

"You're not supposed to listen in on my secrets," says Charlotte. She exaggerates her accent, because she's figured out that it does something for Addison. She cries a little. "I can't sleep, anyway."

"Talk to me, then."

"But I can't tell you all my insecurities. That would give you more power."

Addison smiles, her eyes still closed, and she tries to turn on her side but Charlotte's arm pins her. She reaches up and touches Charlotte's face, like this is so ordinary and natural, like she hasn't spent her entire life lusting after men. "Fine then," she says. "I won't listen."

-end-

* * *

Author's Note: I swear, I have something huge involving Mark coming to LA outlined, but I just can't pin Violet's character correctly. So I hope this was consolation. Written for **Milk and Glass**, because she challenged me to. Thanks for that. 


End file.
